


Solace

by The_Mother_Quill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Mother_Quill/pseuds/The_Mother_Quill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is allowed a ride in the Kingswood, so long as the Hound accompanies her. During a storm, they learn all there is to know about one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> Anything you recognize is probably not mine. This is a work of fiction in which I give George R.R. Martin's characters the story I thought they deserved. I know this is rather a long one-shot, but those darned love birds just wouldn't let me stop!

Sometimes Sandor Clegane thought that the monster that sat on the Iron Throne made him guard the little bird just to tease him. Then again, the boy was an idiot, and inbred at that. Perhaps he truly could not see the effect she had on his faithful Hound. Perhaps he truly was just a stupid, impetuous boy.

Still, either way he looked at it, the Hound was sharing a saddle with the little bird, and being tortured because of it. Her beautiful white shoulders were tense in front of him, and her bum was pressed against him painfully. He never did believe in the gods, but he was praying to whoever would hear him that she wouldn't feel his manhood pressing against her back. That and for the fucking rain to stop.

The day had started innocently enough with the Imp telling his nephew to do something nice for the Stark girl. He'd suggested letting her go for a ride about the Kingswood, which the King had of course balked at.

"Let her ride? Do you _want_ her to escape, uncle?" he'd squeaked, his girlish face turning red.

"Escape? My dear nephew, are you suggesting that Lady Sansa is our prisoner?" the Imp had snipped.

"Of course not. She is _my_ prisoner."

"That's quite enough, beloved nephew. If you fear a little girl running from you, by all means, send your dog with her. That way you'll have someone to do your dirty work, just like you prefer, Your Grace." the Imp said most agreeably. His eyes shot daggers at the King, but the boy did not notice, or did not care.

"Fine," he whined, "Hound, you shall escort the Northern bitch on her ride. See to it she doesn't try to run. If she does, beat her, bloody her, rape her—I don't care—just bring her back here." The King looked at his nails and yawned as if the thought of the girl being injured bored him.

"Your Majesty." he'd said in way of answer, and he'd gone to the girl's chambers. She'd been seated in her window seat, a book in her lap and a small linen cloth in her hand. When he had entered, she quickly hid the book from sight and blushed, trying not to look at him.

"Get your riding boots, little bird. We're to go riding in the Kingswood together, a _gift_ from your betrothed." he'd said gruffly.

Those bright blue eyes of hers had gone wide as saucers, but she'd nodded and told her maid to fetch her boots and a different gown. Sandor waited outside of her room, tapping his foot on the stone and wishing that this day went by quickly. Being near the girl walking to and from the Throne Room was enough to set his blood burning, but alone with her for more than mere minutes…he'd need a rather stout drink that night.

When they were in the Kingswood, away from the many eyes of the city, it seemed to Sandor that the girl relaxed more than he'd ever seen. Her shoulders lowered, eased into their natural place, and her jaw went soft, only serving to make her more devastating. She even smiled back at him when they rode past a patch of yellow jonquils.

"They are my favorite flowers…even more than the blue winter roses of Winterfell." she had said softly, as though speaking to a friend. She had looked at him then, her blue eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun that filtered through the trees.

"May I…pluck one, please?" she had asked him.

"I don't see why not." he'd answered gruffly. He was with the only flower he wanted to pluck, and she was promised to the King of The Seven Kingdoms. She had dismounted fluidly, and swept over to the jonquils like a giddy child. She plucked a flower and tucked it behind her ear. Sandor suppressed a groan, wanting nothing more than to fashion a coronet of the yellow flowers and crown her Queen of Love and Beauty.

"My Lord," she had said, offering a flower up to him.

"What in seven hells would I do with a bloody flower girl? And I'm no bloody Lord." he'd said brusquely. He'd hated himself as soon as the words were out, making her face burn crimson. She turned from him and went back to her horse then. She stepped into the stirrup, but something must have spooked the horse then, because it shot off and she screamed, falling back with her foot still stuck in the stirrup.

"Sansa!" he'd yelled, bolting after her on Stranger. Stranger was far faster than the little blood bay, and he reigned it in quickly, dismounting in one smooth motion and kneeling at her side.

"Are you alright? Where were you hurt? Show me." he said low in his throat. She had been gasping for breath and crying, and the little yellow flower behind her ear was tattered and bruised. Sandor had carefully removed her foot from the stirrup and moved her gently out of the way of the horses, placing himself between the beasts and the beauty. He had cradled her in his arms like a doll, smoothing her hair back from her face.

"My ankle!" she had cried when she caught her breath again, "It hurts!" Her Tully blue eyes leaked with tears and she'd reached up for him, gripping his tunic like she feared being dragged off again.

"Calm yourself, little bird. I must look at it. I need to lift your dress and remove your boot." he had said, looking into her eyes and trying to remain calm so she would follow suit.

"Yes, please." she chirped, still gripping his tunic sleeve as he pushed her skirts out of the way. He had removed her boot as gently as he could, trying to ignore the pain he was causing her, and looked at the purpling flesh of her dainty, white ankle.

"It's sprained, badly, but not broken," he had said, his last word punctuated by the crack of thunder across the sky. He had looked up and cursed as the sky opened itself upon them.

"We need to find shelter so I can tend to your ankle, little bird. Allow me," he had said, lifting her so that he could place her on Stranger's saddle. She had wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned her head against his chest.

And now here they were, she riding in front of him, her round arse pressed against his manhood, in the rain. If there were gods, they were cruel, vicious buggers with an evil sense of humor. When an old hunting hut came into view though, Sandor nearly lost his seat he spurred Stranger on so swiftly. He made quick, but tender work of helping Sansa down from the saddle and he carried her to the doorway.

With one thrust of his booted foot, Sandor had the door open. Sansa gasped when the door crashed open, her lithe body pressing closer to his. He had to put her down, because having her in his arms was doing things to his body that he knew needed to stop.

"I need to tether the horses. Stay still so you don't hurt your ankle, girl." he rasped, wet black ropes of hair hanging in his grey eyes. She looked up at him and nodded silently. He paused for a moment and unfastened his white cloak. "Here, it's not much drier than you are, but it'll keep you warm." he grumbled, exiting the shack as soon as she was covered.

The cool rain helped to suppress his…urges, but it was also turning the forest floor to mud, which would hide their tracks from any of the Kingsguard if they came looking, which they would. The King would miss his little punching bag and send for her, only to remember he'd sent her off with the Hound to ride about the Kingswood. He cursed as he tied the horses up, dreading whatever punishment the King had planned for this. He knew the little bastard would turn it into the girl's fault, would say she was trying to run.

Sandor went back into the hut and shut the door behind him as the wind picked up. Sansa was still sitting on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her. He noted that she had his cloak around her shoulders, and felt an odd emotion swim to the surface.

"How do you feel, little bird?" he asked, kneeling beside her. She looked at him with apprehension, then looked down at her ankle. He realized she was trying not to cry. "There's no need for that here. The little prick isn't around to get his pleasure from your cries. It's going to hurt when I wrap it, so…you can…cry." he mumbled. Sansa looked up at him and tears began to leak from her perfectly lovely eyes down her perfectly lovely cheek and made Sandor feel perfectly awful.

Sandor tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of the cloak wrapped around Sansa. As gently as he could manage, he lifted her dainty foot and wrapped it with the torn, white fabric. When he tied it off she jumped a little, hissing at the pain, but she had stopped crying.

"Thank you…" she said with a tight smile.

"This storm will keep us here for a bit. Are you cold, little bird?" he asked, absently rubbing her arm. He looked down at his hand, wondering why it had reached out to her like that without his permission, then back up into her eyes.

"You called me Sansa before. You never call me by my name… Were you truly that afraid I'd be hurt?" she asked, her fingers straying to his hand.

"Don't be stupid, girl. I was worried about the horse." he muttered, withdrawing his hand. "I'll…try to start a fire for you."

He felt the girl's eyes on him as he worked, reducing an old chair to kindling and tossing it into the middle of the stone floor. Even as he struggled with starting a flame, he felt her eyes upon him and he growled low in his throat, turning to her in frustration.

"What in seven hells are you looking at, girl?" he boomed. She flinched at the sound of his voice, but looked back up at him again.

"I can do that, if you want. I know…well…the flames…" she trailed off. Sandor exhaled audibly and handed her the implements to start the fire, then stepped back and put his back against the wall of the hut, trying to get as far from the impending fire as possible.

"Besides, you were doing it wrong…" Sansa mumbled.

"What was that, girl?"

"I said, you were doing it wrong." she said, remaking his firewood pile from her knees. She tore off a small strip of fabric from her dress and began to strike the flint at it.

"Where'd you learn to do that, little bird? Highborn ladies have maids to build fires for them, or so I thought."

"My father thought it prudent that all of his children know how to start a fire. Winter is coming. Those are the Stark words, and for good reason." she said as she built the fire. He was impressed with her skill. He watched her as she worked on her knees, building quite a nice little fire. The flames were hot, but not big enough to set the hut on fire. Sansa turned to him and motioned at his tunic.

"What?" he grumbled.

"Give me your tunic. I shall try and dry it," she said, removing the white cloak from her shoulders to lie out near the fire. Sandor raised his good brow and scoffed.

"I'm fine, little bird." he assured.

"Give me your tunic." she said again, more forcefully. He grumbled, but assented and pulled the tunic over his head, leaving him only in his breeches. Sansa laid the tunic out by the fire and then laid her own cloak beside it. She clumsily maneuvered her way onto her bum and scooted back further from the fire. Sandor noted her dress was soaked through as well, and she was shivering despite the fire. He stood and crossed to her, putting his hands out.

"Your frozen to the bone girl, get your dress off." he rasped. Her pretty cheeks flushed that lovely pink color again and her eyes widened.

"I…I am fine, thank you. The fire will warm me soon enough." she said. Sandor barked a laugh and knelt beside her.

"You made me take off my tunic, now I'm making you take off that damned dress. You'll be much warmer when you're not in wet clothes, stupid bird." he said. Sansa's cheeks weren't the only thing burning red now. Her ears blazed a bright red, almost as vibrant as her hair.

"Very well," she finally mumbled. She turned her back to Sandor expectantly. When nothing happened, she turned back and looked expectantly at him.

"You have to unlace it. I cannot reach the ties myself." she said, embarrassed. Sandor grumbled but nodded. She turned away from him again and he fumbled with the laces of the gown until it was loose enough to pull off.

"Raise your arms up, little bird." he said softly. He gathered all the fabric and pulled the dress over her head, leaving her in nothing more than her thin shift and smallclothes. She hurriedly wrapped her arms around herself, only causing her breasts to be pushed together even more. Sandor felt his breeches tighten again and growled low in his throat as he laid the dress out by the fire.

"T-thank you," Sansa muttered. She reached one arm up and felt the ruin her hair was in. She sighed and reached up with both hands to undo the braids so that her hair would dry faster, and Sandor glanced sideways at her form. She was tall and thin, but her breasts and hips had certainly developed more in the time since she arrived in King's Landing. She was so young, and yet she was no child. She was a woman flowered, Sandor remembered. He cringed at the thought of her trying to burn her sheets so that no one would know what had happened. She had been so afraid of Joffrey taking her for himself and she'd nearly caused herself harm.

"Still cold, little bird?" he asked, sitting himself next to her even though he wanted to be as far from her as possible. She was close to naked, and his breeches were already tight against his manhood.

"A little," she admitted, hugging her arms around herself. Sandor liked the look of her hair down. He'd always questioned the elaborate, ridiculous hairstyles of the southern women. He was a simple man who liked simple things. Simple, beautiful things like Sansa Stark…

Sandor scooted himself closer and picked her up, smirking slightly at the gasp she emitted. He sat her next to him in the crook of his arm and held her so she would warm up. Sansa hesitantly placed her hand on his muscled stomach, resting her head against his chest. Sandor inhaled her scent. She always smelled like honeysuckle and roses, and today was no different.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered into his chest.

"For what, little bird?"

"Everything." she breathed, shivering and scooting closer to him. When her breasts pressed against his side Sandor could feel how cold she was, and he had to ball his hand into a fist to keep from cupping her breasts.

"Speak clearly, girl. I'm not responsible for everything."

"No, that's…I meant…" Sandor had never seen the little bird falter so. She was so quick to raise her shield around the King and Queen Regent and the Kingsguard, but for some reason she was seldom able to make those pretty words around him. "You have never hit me, you have never harmed me. You are…kind…to me."

"I am not kind, little bird." It made Sandor sad thinking that the kindest person in her life was him, simply because he'd never laid a hand on her.

"But…you gave me your handkerchief and stopped me from pushing the King over the edge of the parapet! And at his nameday tourney, you lied for me! You…you protect me, I see it. I can feel you follow me, watch me, guard me. You are the only one." It sounded as though she had planned those words for a long time.

Sandor looked down at her and saw that she had her eyes closed tightly and her jaw clenched.

"After all of this _kindness_ , you still cannot look at me." he said gruffly. Sansa's eyes snapped open and she looked up at him with disbelief in her eyes.

"You cannot think…that I still fear you?" she asked incredulously.

"Do you not?"

"No! I can't look at you because if anyone caught me staring, if anyone saw…" she trailed off and drew herself away from him, wrapping her arms around her knees and pulling them up to her chest.

"Saw what, little bird?" Sandor asked uncertainly. Sansa took a deep breath, raised her head, and looked directly into his eyes, Tully blue to steely grey.

"How I feel about you. How I respect you and care for you and wish…how I wish that I could be with you always. You make me feel safe, and warm. You are my solace, Sandor." she said with a fierceness that stirred him. Looking into her eyes, he could see there were no lies there, this was no trick. She cared for him. Sansa Stark, the most beautiful, terrifying, wonderful woman he'd ever known actually cared for _him_.

When finally she broke her gaze from his, Sandor felt his breath shudder through him like a quake, burning through his body. Before he could think, before he could make his body obey, he moved to her and cupped her face.

When he crushed his lips to hers, Sandor Clegane knew there was no turning back. There was no living or breathing ever again without her. Though his face had been scarred by flame, his body scarred by steel, he had never felt as ruined as he did the moment Sansa Stark returned his kiss.

She tasted of honey and lemon and cool water and fresh snow. She tasted of new grass and wildflowers and summer wind. Part of him that he'd believed long dead unexpectedly breathed again, the sweetest breath he'd ever taken.

Her lips were soft and smooth, her tongue shy and slow, and Sandor knew she would be his undoing. When he felt her cool hand on his scarred flesh, something within Sandor Clegane broke. Whatever it was that had been spurring him on was suddenly and completely gone. He stopped, pulling his face from hers, and he opened his eyes as though seeing clearly after a fog.

"What is wrong?" she asked, concern flooding her beautiful face.

"I cannot do this. You will marry Joffrey, and if he finds your maidenhead is not intact, he will have your head on a spike just like your father."

Sansa looked at him, the pitiful creature that had once been the Hound, and she cupped his face in her hands.

"Without you, my head would already rest on a spike. My maidenhead is not the King's, my body is not his, my heart is not his. Everything I am belongs to you, Sandor Clegane. You have only to take what is freely given." she told him honestly. When she pushed a stray tress of black behind his ear, he caught her wrist in his hand and pressed his lips to her wrist. She moved her wrist and slowly replaced it with her lips.

The kiss was slow and painful, a pain he'd not experienced since Gregor had shoved his face into that brazier. He was still clothed in his breeches and boots, but in that moment Sandor had never felt more naked. With his little bird sitting on his lap, kissing him, touching him, he'd never felt more whole and more broken. She was his. She was _his_.

Sandor let his hands move to the hem of Sansa's shift. As he lifted it, she let her arms rise over her head and broke their kiss momentarily. When the shift was in a silken puddle on the floor, Sansa's eyes were staring into his again. Carefully, she moved off of his lap to remove his boots and stockings. Sandor touched her thigh, letting his fingers trail up her white flesh to remove her smallclothes. When she was naked in front of him, Sandor simply took her in.

He could not think of anything in the world more beautiful than the woman before him right now. Her skin was pale as fresh cream, her cheeks flushed like cherry blossoms. Her breasts were small but full, with taught, pink nipples. Her auburn hair fell in damp curls to her elbows, and his gaze fell to the mound of strawberry curls between her thighs.

Sandor gently laid Sansa back on the floor, as though she was as fragile as a pane of glass. He pushed his breeches off and knelt over her. He felt raw as she looked at him, at all of him. He felt for the first time ever that someone actually saw him. He leaned down and kissed her lips again, then moved to her chin, slowly trailing light kisses down her neck to her collarbone. He reached her breasts and leisurely worshiped at both of them before moving down to her stomach. Sansa moaned when his lips found her woman's place, her most private of parts.

Sandor thought her mouth was sweet, but knew he'd never tasted anything as magnificent as the lips he now kissed. When she began to shudder and she called out his name, he slowly pulled away from her, leaving her wet and hot. He looked into her eyes and she drew his face down towards her. Instead of meeting his lips again though, Sansa kissed his forehead and broke him yet again. He was convinced he would die soon, for before this moment he'd though only death could be this sweet. He was so wrong.

Sandor looked into Sansa's eyes and hovered over her, poised at her entrance. He was a big man, tall and broad and strong, and his manhood was no different. He knew he was going to cause her great pain.

"I know it will hurt. Please, do it." she whispered. Sandor entered her in one silken thrust, and felt the snag of her veil tearing and of her body shuddering against his.

"Sandor," she rasped, gripping his shoulders tightly and digging her nails into his back. He did not move, would not hurt her again. She was so small, so tight, and he had never felt anything like her.

"Do you wish me to stop?" he whispered, leaning his weight on his elbow so he could cup her cheek gently. Her eyes snapped open and met his.

"Please, no." she begged, wrapping one of her legs around his waist. That slight movement gave him all the encouragement he needed. Slowly, painfully slow, he moved his hips against hers and buried his head into her neck.

Sansa was everything at once. She was fire and ice, she was soft and hard, she was the earth and the sky. She was the Maiden, still bearing her maidenhead. She was the Mother, guarding him from the shadows of his own mind. She was the Crone, blindly accepting his every flaw, every scar. She was the Father, commanding his heart. She was the Warrior, fighting back every horrid thought he'd ever had. She was the Smith, re-forging his very soul. Finally, she was the Stranger, for he knew more certainly than he knew his own name, Sansa Stark would be the death of him.

Sansa clung to him, gasping and moaning. She moved her hips against his though, and Sandor realized that she was not in pain, at least not the kind he had expected to cause her. He knew he was close to his fall now, that he would not last much longer with those perfect, round little hips of hers moving with him. He buried his face in her neck and burned in her flaming hair. Sansa tangled her hand in his hair, trying to hold on for dear life it seemed. Sandor kissed her neck, her jaw, her ear, and finally found her mouth again.

Sandor pulled himself up into a sitting position, moving Sansa with him to straddle his lap. He looked into her eyes and thrust into her one last time before gasping her name as he spilled himself inside of her. He leaned his forehead against hers and they both panted, trying to catch their breath. Sandor moved so that he could pull her against his chest, and she fit against him as if she'd been made to. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve such a gift, but he was glad to have done it.

Sansa splayed her hand out over his chest and ran her fingernails over his chest hair. Her Tully blue eyes looked up at him and Sandor leaned his head down to capture her lips in another kiss.

"Are you alright?" he asked her with deep concern in his grey eyes. She smiled up at him and nodded.

"I have never felt better than I do right now." she said and yawned contentedly, nuzzling deeper into his side. Sandor found himself smiling into her hair and he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. For a time, the two of them just held each other, until Sandor thought she had fallen asleep.

"How did you get this?" Her voice swept over him and he looked down to see what she was talking about. It was a scar, one of many really, on his side.

"Caught a morningstar in the ribs." He smirked when she gasped slightly, running her fingers over the pink flesh.

"And this one?" she asked, running her fingers over one of his nipples as she reached a large scar on his collarbone.

"Someone tried to skewer my head with a spear." This one she kissed lightly, then moved on to another scar. She found one on his thickly muscled arm and gently tickled the flesh over the scar.

"This?"

"Axe."

"And it didn't take your arm off?" she asked incredulously as her lips grazed the puckered scar.

"I killed the man before he got the pleasure." he answered. Again, she moved on. This time she landed on one of his hands, lightly tracing the numerous, fine white scars that covered the tanned flesh there.

"These?"

"Rosebush." The noise Sansa made could only be described as unladylike.

"A rosebush?"

"Yes." he said, smiling down at her. She let her arms fold into a pillow on his chest which she placed her chin on, and she stared up at him.

"You must explain, my love." she said casually. The new pet name made Sandor smile so wide his face nearly cracked, and he gently thumped her nose with his forefinger.

"When I was a boy, one of our dogs ran into my mother's rosebushes. I went in after him, but the thorns sliced my hands. By the time I reached the pup, my hands were a bloody mess." Sandor had never told anyone that story before. He looked into Sansa's blue eyes and smiled at her, tapping her nose again.

"I love you, Sansa." he heard himself say. He was just vomiting confessions today it seemed. But even as his good cheek reddened to the color of the scarred one, Sansa pushed herself forward and kissed him with painful tenderness.

"I love you too, Sandor." she answered, and kissed him again. Soon, the two were a tangle of limbs again as they declared their love for one another again in the tiny hunter's hut. When finally their bodies collapsed in exhaustion against each other, the moon was high in the stormy night sky.

Sandor listened to the rain batter the hut and the breathing of the woman he loved, whose head lay upon his chest and whose hand rested over his heart. Before this day he would have scoffed had anyone claimed he had a heart, and even now he knew it was not his. It was Sansa's, just as her heart belonged to him. As his eyes drifted closed, Sandor knew he would care for her heart better than he'd ever cared for his own.

Dawn broke clear and new over the little hut, painting the room with golden light. Sandor opened his eyes and found his face was buried in a puddle of flaming red hair. He felt his mouth curl into a smile and pressed a kiss to Sansa's temple. A cough froze him solid though, and he reached for his sword with the agility of a shadowcat.

"Still your blade, Clegane. I'm not here for that." said an all-too-familiar voice. Sandor looked to the door to see the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, leaning against it.

"You might not be, but you'll have to kill me before you take her." he growled low in his throat. The voices roused Sansa and she looked up at him with a lazy smile. When his eyes flashed to Tyrion though, she looked over and gasped, trying to cover herself as best she could. Tyrion looked away from her as he tossed her the shift she'd abandoned the night before.

"Why don't you both dress and I shall await you without," the Imp said, motioning to the door. He stepped out and Sandor immediately went to Sansa.

"Get dressed as quick as you can. I need to see how many there are." he said low in his throat. Sandor crossed to the door as silent as a shadow, and peeked out the window. What he saw shocked him though. There were only three horses outside, and one man. Well, half a man really. The Imp was alone. _What are you playing at, Lannister?_

Sandor dressed himself quickly, then made a mess of Sansa's dress when he tried to lace it up. She managed a true smile, and she kissed him firmly before Sandor went to the door, sword still drawn.

"What's your game, Lannister?" Sandor asked, pointing his sword at the Imp.

"Game? I am shocked. Clearly you've mistaken me for my foolish nephew." the small man said. He bowed to Sansa, who remembered her courtesies and curtsied in turn.

"What do you want?" Sandor punctuated each word as though speaking to a lackwit.

"To see my wretched nephew humiliated in front of all the Seven Kingdoms, of course." the dwarf spoke as though bored. Sandor did not understand, and gripped his sword tighter, but Sansa placed her delicate hand on his arm.

"You mean to let us go…to escape." she said, in shock.

"It seems, Lady Sansa, that you are not quite so stupid as my lovely sister and her son seem to think." the Imp answered.

"I don't believe it. What do you have to gain from this, Imp?" Sandor growled, still placing his body between Sansa and Tyrion.

"Amusement, Clegane. The look on Joffrey's face when he hears that his faithful dog has escaped with his lady love will be sweeter than any wine or cunt money could buy."

"He's _not_ a dog, my Lord." Sansa said icily. Tyrion turned to her and chuckled.

"No, perhaps not. Forgive me, Lady Sansa." he stepped forward and held his hands out with the palms up. "You see, my sleeves are so short that I can fit no schemes into them. I have tried to have Joffrey's… _appetites_ …slaked with something other than your cries. I have tried to shove him into the beds of whores and noble virgins alike, but nothing seems to entertain him as much as making you scream. I have a weak stomach, truly, and have tired of such spectacles." Tyrion reached into his tunic, making Sandor raise the point of his sword closer to the dwarf's throat than before, but he pulled out a leather pouch. He held it out to Sansa, but it was Sandor that took it from him.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," the Imp said, "I do not dare think this is payment near enough to make up for Joffrey's cruelty, but perhaps it can help in your new life together, my Lady." he said and bent his head at her again. He then turned to Sandor and acted as though there was no sword pointed at his throat.

"I suggest you go quickly, Clegane. I sent the majority of the search party to scan the walls of the Keep for a hut that does not exist. I would suggest taking the Wendwater up to a port town along the Blackwater. From there you can sail anywhere. It has been my experience that it is easiest to hide in plain sight, but with your face Clegane, hiding far away would be most advisable."

The Imp turned to Sansa and approached her. He looked at Sandor as though asking permission, and when the man finally moved his sword from before him, Tyrion took Sansa's hand and kissed it.

"My Lady, I am truly sorry for everything that has befallen you." he said. He turned then to Sandor and dipped his head. "Clegane, get her away from here." was all he said to Sandor, then he walked from the hut and used a fallen log to mount his horse. When he was out of sight, Sansa looked up at Sandor.

"We are free…" Sansa said in disbelief.

Sandor stepped to her as he sheathed his sword. He leaned down and kissed her thoroughly. When they parted, Sandor took the leather pouch Tyrion had given them and weighed it in his hand. They had no clothes, no food, no supplies, only their horses and the pouch and each other.

Sandor would have it no other way.


End file.
